


untitled snippet: crossdressing!Arthur gets discovered

by i_claudia



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-13
Updated: 2009-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 11:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Merlin thinks it’s probably one of Morgana’s old dresses; it looks like the blue one from two court seasons ago, the one Morgana wore a few times and then never again, much to the disappointment of Sirs Percival and Bedivere. It’s been remade, altered to fit Arthur’s broad shoulders, but it’s still too short. Merlin can see Arthur’s bare feet, the tensing of the muscles in his calves in the long moment they spend staring silent at each other, Merlin’s hand still on the cool metal of the latch."</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled snippet: crossdressing!Arthur gets discovered

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for snottygrrl and posted on LJ [here](http://i-claudia.livejournal.com/34781.html?thread=505053#t505053). (13 October 2009)

Merlin rolls his hips, savouring the way it makes Arthur wind his fingers deeper into the tangled sheets beneath them, and bends down to taste the salt of Arthur’s neck, reckless, running his tongue along the ridges of Arthur’s spine while Arthur moans into the feather ticking. He’d never imagined, never dared to think he could have Arthur like this, spread out and shuddering beneath him, his skirts rucked up around his ribs, the ends of his hair dark and damp with sweat.

*

Merlin’s spent hours watching Arthur, cataloguing each sure movement until Arthur is burned so deeply into his memory that all Merlin has to do is close his eyes to see him surging forward on the training field, sword flashing in his hand; to watch his face, the red roundness of his mouth as he thrusts deeper into Merlin, gasping out _yes_ and _need_ and _Merlin_. He knows Arthur has secrets; knows the locked chest beside Arthur’s bed holds more than keys and spare tallow candles, but he’s never pressed for the complete truth, content to wait with half-formed suspicions. He wants Arthur to come to him of his own will to confess, needs Arthur to want him so badly that all it takes for him to unravel is Merlin’s level gaze.

The only thing that crosses his mind when he opens Arthur’s door that morning is _I never thought of that_.

Merlin thinks it’s probably one of Morgana’s old dresses; it looks like the blue one from two court seasons ago, the one Morgana wore a few times and then never again, much to the disappointment of Sirs Percival and Bedivere. It’s been remade, altered to fit Arthur’s broad shoulders, but it’s still too short. Merlin can see Arthur’s bare feet, the tensing of the muscles in his calves in the long moment they spend staring silent at each other, Merlin’s hand still on the cool metal of the latch.

Arthur tries to bluster, deny, but Merlin knows him too well, can read the fraught confession in the tight lines of Arthur’s face, the desperate way his fingers clench in the fabric of his skirts. He stalks Arthur across the room, around chairs and the scattered proof of Arthur’s deepest secret: here, a pair of ladies’ gloves, delicate and embroidered; there, a pot of lip paint, abandoned brush dripping scarlet on the floor.

He stops when he’s got Arthur backed up against the bed, lets his eyes roam over the sight before him – the flush high on Arthur’s cheeks, the soft hair disappearing beneath the scalloped edge of the bodice, the arch of Arthur’s neck, still proud and arrogant as ever – lets Arthur see the raw desire thrumming through his body. Arthur almost reaches out but stops, flinches back, hesitating; Merlin waits, refuses to allow Arthur to get away with pretending this isn’t entirely his idea.

_Please_ , Arthur says, his voice scraped, choked by shame and need in equal measure, and that’s good enough for Merlin, who doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up even when Arthur’s driven almost mad by want, pleading for _more, please, harder_. He keeps Arthur pinned under his hands and hips, drawing the pleasure out because Arthur’s beautiful like this, straining against Merlin and the tiny buttons on his dress that keep him from breathing deep, until the thought of Arthur finally laid bare and truthful beneath him sends him hurtling over the edge, and he pulls Arthur with him in a crashing wave of heady glory and blue silk.


End file.
